


Is This Therapy?

by seasons_of_supernatural



Category: Rent (2005), Rent - Larson
Genre: Confessions, F/F, First Kiss, M/M, Multi, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23174929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasons_of_supernatural/pseuds/seasons_of_supernatural
Summary: Therapy is expensive. Venting to your ex-girlfriend and her fiancée, if you don’t count the emotional toll and loss of dignity, is not.
Relationships: Joanne Jefferson/Maureen Johnson, Mark Cohen/Roger Davis
Comments: 9
Kudos: 55





	Is This Therapy?

“I really don’t think this is a good idea,” Mark says, closing his eyes as though it will change the fact that he’s lying on the old leather couch with his head in his ex-girlfriend’s lap.

“Oh, hush,” Maureen replies airily. “When was the last time you talked to anyone about your feelings?”

The answer to that is probably somewhere around 1985. “That’s what I thought,” says Maureen in response to Mark's silence. “You need catharsis--”

“What exactly is going on here?”

Mark opens his eyes to see Joanne staring down at them, eyes narrowed. “Nothing,” Maureen says quickly.

“Catharsis,” Mark volunteers as he sits up, the room spinning slightly after the sudden motion.

Maureen gasps with some sudden realization. “You can help! We’re being Mark’s therapists,” she explains, and Mark thinks she’s far too excited about this.

“I’ll supervise,” Joanne decides, still glaring at Mark suspiciously. (Not that he blames her, considering Maureen isn’t exactly known for being faithful and Mark took about six months to get over the breakup.)

Maureen claps her hands (literally claps them; she really is a child at heart). “Let’s get started. Mark.” She leans forward, elbows on her knees, angling her body to face Mark. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I already told you, I’m fine.”

“Oh, sure you are. Marky’s got a crush,” she singsongs.

“Please,” he scoffs. Now, that takes him back to high school.

“Fine. He’s in love.”

Mark’s vision blurs, the room starting to spin again. Love. That’s a big word. Or, rather, it’s a small word with a significant amount of meaning that Mark would rather not confront at this moment. “I’m not in love,” he chokes out with what he hopes is some amount of indignance.

Maureen sighs dramatically, as if Mark is the one being childish. “Fine. You’re…falling for someone. Someone who doesn’t reciprocate?”

Falling for someone. Sure. A little cliché, but then again, that's what Mark does, isn’t it? Tell the same story, over and over. “I wouldn’t know,” he mumbles.

“Well, it’s clearly Roger,” says Joanne.

Mark begins to cough violently, at which point Maureen claps him on the back, which really just makes it worse. After regaining his breath, Mark gasps, “Who said it was Roger?”

Maureen opens her mouth, but Joanne cuts her off before she can speak. “It has to be someone you know well, so it’s either one of the six of us or Benny, and it’s not Benny because he’s a dick. You seem to think you have a shot so it can’t be Collins, it’s not me because I’m a lesbian and I’d like to think it’s not Maureen because that would just be--”

“--because Maureen is engaged!” Maureen interjects, looking affronted.

Joanne glares, at which point Maureen stops talking. “Moving on, it’s clearly a guy, so that leaves Roger.”

“Who said it was a guy?” Mark protests.

“Gaydar,” Joanne and Maureen say in unison.

“Plus, you’re always staring at him when you think no one’s looking,” Maureen adds.

Mark feels his face go red. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says quietly.

“And why is that?” asks Maureen, back in her therapist voice.

“Because it’s my fucking business, that’s why,” he snaps, standing up off the couch and attempting to leave, but Joanne grabs his wrist. “Mark, you can’t just leave--”

“You need to catharse,” Maureen urges, and Mark almost laughs at that. “And who better to do that with than the lesbians from next door?” She neglects to mention that she and Joanne live about three blocks away, and that she’s bisexual, not gay. Minor details.

“Sit back down,” says Joanne. “Please. We won’t make you talk--we won’t,” she admonishes Maureen, who looked like she was about to protest. “But if you leave, you’re going to regret it. I think you know that.”

“Five minutes,” Maureen pleads, and this time Joanne doesn’t silence her. “Five minutes, and then you can go.”

Mark sits.

It’s silent for a while. No one knows what to say, but maybe that’s because there’s nothing to be said until Joanne asks him, gently, “How long?”

Mark thinks back and there’s almost nothing. Never a male celebrity or a boy behind the bleachers or a passing attraction to that man on the subway. Not until him. “A year." Or five, or ten, or maybe it's been as long as he's known his roommate and he just didn't see it.

“And he knows?”

Mark scoffs. “Please.”

“Well you have to tell him.”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because you need to be honest with yourself. And him.”

“And he might like you back,” Maureen adds.

Like. That word again. Like. Love. Attraction. Words can’t describe the jump in Mark’s heartbeat, the warmth when they’re lying on the couch together, the colors- melancholy indigo and fiery red that only come when he’s there. Deeper than like, easier than love, more substantial than attraction. Something that is without having a name.

But he doesn’t know how to convey that to his ex-girlfriend and her fiancée, so instead he announces, “Five minutes,” takes his camera off the coffee table and walks out the door.

***

Roger is home and practicing when Mark turns the key in the door. “How was Maureen’s?”

“Same as always. Have you eaten today?”

“Since when do you care?”

“Since I care about you.”

It’s not like he’s never said it before. Or maybe he hasn’t. Roger isn’t a very touchy-feely kind of person and neither is Mark (with some exceptions, but they don't talk about those). But somehow the words hang in the air like they mean something different, and maybe they do, seeing as Mark has never admitted it like this before. Or maybe it’s just that Roger’s stopped playing and the guitar lies forgotten on the couch as he steps forwards until Mark’s back is pressed against the wall and he’s whispering in a voice like dry ice that sends a shiver down Mark’s spine, “Prove it.”

And, okay, yeah, Mark is pretty sure Roger wants him to kiss him.

It’s supposed to be small, just a taste, supposed to be a second-long impulse that they can laugh about after. Only it’s not because Roger is pushing him into the wall, hand tangled in Mark’s hair, and yeah, they’re definitely making out and it’s messy and wanting and beautiful and fucking surreal, and it takes Mark longer than he’d like to admit to realize where this is going and he murmurs, “Wait--shit, Roger, hold on--”

Roger pulls back, face flushed. “What?”

“Don’t you—don’t you want to talk about it, or—” Mark isn’t quite sure where he’s going, only that it feels like he’s on a train that’s going too fast.

“Talk about what?”

“Just—we’re roommates, and I don’t—I mean I didn’t even know you w—”

He trails off as Roger cups his face in his hands. “Mark.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

He kisses Mark again and Mark laughs against his lips. “Fuck you.”

“Alright.”

Things become very hazy from there; Mark isn’t quite sure how they ended up on Roger’s bed with significantly less clothing than they had before but if he’s still going with the train metaphor than he really, really doesn’t want to get off this ride. His skin burns where Roger touches him and his ears are ringing and wait, no, someone’s actually ringing the doorbell. “Shit.”

For the second time today Mark pushes Roger off him and dives to the ground, searching frantically for a shirt or something to throw on, Jesus--“I’m coming, I’m coming!”

Roger smirks. “That’s what—”

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Mark pulls on a T-shirt, sprints across the apartment, and opens the door, only slightly out of breath. “Collins! Hi!”

Collins looks him up and down with an expression of suspicious amusement. “You’re shirt’s on backwards.”

Mark glances down and feels the tag start to itch at the front of his neck. “So it is.”

“Also, you have sex hair.”

Mark swallows back another coughing fit, and Collins laughs. “Took you two long enough! Hah! Benny owes me twenty bucks.”

Mark frowns. “Excuse me?”

Collins just shrugs, still with an infuriating smirk. “We had a bet going. You two weren’t being very subtle.”

“Who wasn’t being subtle?”

Mark startles at the sound and whips around to see Roger standing behind him, not even bothering to have a shirt on. Mark sighs. Collins bursts into laughter again. “Have fun, kids!” he whoops before shutting the door.

Mark wonders if the carpet beneath him is thick enough to swallow him whole. “Jesus,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

Roger steps closer and catches Mark’s wrist, pinning it to the wall, their faces inches apart now. “So.”

“So,” is Mark's attempt at a witty comeback.

“Where were we?”

Back in the bedroom was where they were, with no more words and Roger kissing and kissing and kissing him.


End file.
